Death of a Scholar

Chapter 3

It was a market day, and as Bartholomew headed towards his ordeal with Dickon, he could hear the familiar clamour of commerce echoing through the streets: the cry of vendors hawking their wares, the clatter of iron-shod cartwheels on cobbles, and the heavier trundle of wagons carrying bulk goods to and from the wharves by the river. The taverns were busy, too, and beadles were out in force, ousting those drinkers who were students. Trouble arose when the matriculands challenged the beadles’ authority to give them orders, and more than one inn rang with acrimonious voices.

As Bartholomew passed the jumble of houses known as The Jewry, he glanced, as always, at the cottage that had once belonged to Matilde, the love of his life. He had been tardy in asking her to marry him, which had led to her leaving Cambridge one fine spring morning. He had spent months searching for her, travelling to every place she had ever mentioned. He had failed to find her, but had recently discovered that she had not gone as far away as he had believed. Their paths had crossed, and she had made a vague promise of a future together.

As always when he thought of her, he experienced a sharp stab of loss, although the feeling was now tempered by confusion. He had believed he would never love another woman, but that was before he had met Julitta, wife of the town’s only surgeon.

He was perplexed by the emotions that assailed him. Neither woman was available, as one had disappeared again and the other was married, but that did not stop him pondering which one he should choose. Until that summer, he would have picked Matilde, but their recent encounter – if it could be called that; he had been asleep at the time, and he was still hurt that she had opted to communicate by letter rather than wait for him to wake – had opened his eyes to flaws in her character he had not known she possessed. She and Julitta were on a much more even footing in his mind now, so it was perhaps fortunate that neither was clamouring for an immediate answer.

He was obliged to watch his step when he reached Bridge Street, to navigate the chaos of ruts outside St Clement’s Church. When he looked up again, his spirits soared: Julitta was walking towards him. He smiled – until he saw she was with her husband. All thoughts of an enjoyable tête-à-tête fled, and he glanced around for a suitable hiding place. Then he reminded himself that he was a senior scholar, and should not be scuttling down alleys to avoid uncomfortable meetings.

The Holms were a handsome couple, and as Julitta had inherited a fortune from her father, which allowed them to buy whatever clothes took their fancy, they were beautifully attired. Her money also meant that Holm did not have to work, and he had been quick to pare down his practice in order to concentrate on what he considered to be his true vocation – inventing patent medicines. So far, he had marketed a powder to cure baldness and a method for dislodging kidney stones, both of which had been spectacular failures. Even so, there was arrogance in his stride – his disappointments in the world of healing had done nothing to temper his high opinion of himself.

Julitta wore a blue kirtle that matched her remarkable eyes. Her long, silky hair was in a plait, an unusual style for a married woman, but one that suited her. She had adored her pretty husband when they had first been wed, but it had not taken many nights before the cold truth had dawned. Her happy innocence was replaced by something graver and wiser, but she declined to let Holm’s preferences dismay her. She had simply turned to Bartholomew for comfort, although she retained a touching devotion towards the surgeon that Bartholomew felt Holm did not deserve.

‘Have you heard what people are saying about you, physician?’ Holm asked with a smirk. ‘That you used witchcraft to snatch Potmoor from Hell.’

‘Will is right, Matt,’ said Julitta worriedly. ‘You made no friends when you saved him.’

‘I had no idea that smelling salts could be so potent,’ Holm went on. ‘I bought a bottle from Eyer the apothecary afterwards, but he says the one he sold you must have been different from his usual brews, as sal ammoniac does not usually restore life to corpses.’

‘Potmoor was not dead,’ said Bartholomew irritably. ‘As you know perfectly well – you were there. And when we discussed catalepsia later, you said you had witnessed several cases of it.’

‘That was before accusations of necromancy started to fly about, so I have reappraised my memory in the interests of personal safety. However, I would not mind owning the sal ammoniac you used on Potmoor. Will you sell it to me? It might come in useful.’

‘Useful for what, Will?’ asked Julitta uneasily. ‘You are not thinking of restoring life to corpses yourself, are you?’

‘Not I,’ averred Holm. ‘But I still conduct surgery on one or two favoured patients, and a more pungent mixture might help to rouse them when things do not go quite according to plan.’

‘I threw it away,’ said Bartholomew shortly. Rank superstition had led him to toss the little pot in the College midden – a ridiculous fear that the smelling salts might indeed have held some diabolical power.

‘That was wise,’ said Julitta, although Holm looked disgusted. Then she smiled and changed the subject. ‘We are summoned to yet another urgent gathering of the Guild of Saints. There are a great many of them these days, most requiring speedy decisions about money.’

Like many social and religious fraternities in Cambridge, the Guild of Saints not only accepted women as members, but encouraged them to take an active role in its running. Willing and efficient ladies like Julitta – and Edith before she had been lumbered with her husband’s business – were kept extremely busy with its various undertakings.

‘It is tiresome,’ said Holm sulkily. ‘And making beggars happy is a waste of time, if you ask me, although I must say I enjoy the Guild’s monthly feasts.’

‘Perhaps this meeting is to discuss the role Winwick Hall will play in the University’s beginning of term ceremony next week,’ Julitta went on, ignoring him.

‘Really?’ Bartholomew was puzzled. ‘Why would your friends be interested in that? It is a University matter, and none of the Guild’s concern.’

‘Our members have given Winwick Hall a lot of money,’ explained Julitta. ‘So we have a say in what it does and when.’

‘The other scholars hate us having such influence over a foundation that will soon belong to their studium generale,’ gloated Holm. ‘And next week’s ceremony is just the start. Winwick will soon be the largest College in Cambridge, and by controlling it, we shall control the University.’

‘Take no notice,’ murmured Julitta, squeezing Bartholomew’s hand as her husband strutted away. ‘He is in a bad mood because he had a row with Hugo Potmoor. It was over the Michaelhouse Choir if you can believe it.’

The choir in question was Michael’s concern, a body of spectacularly untalented individuals who attended practices solely for the free bread and ale afterwards. They had a reputation for performances so loud that they could be heard miles away, and Bartholomew had never understood why Michael, an accomplished musician, steadfastly refused to accept that they were a lost cause.

‘Michael wants to use them in the ceremony,’ Julitta elaborated. ‘Hugo thinks it is an excellent idea, but Will has heard them sing. Will does not want to argue with the son of a man who is … well, suffice to say, I should not like to cross a Potmoor.’

Bartholomew continued his journey, wishing with all his heart that Julitta’s father had not betrothed her to Holm. Then he would have wed her, and Matilde would not have re-entered his life to create such a turmoil of conflicting feelings. Of course, it would have meant giving up the teaching he loved, as scholars were not permitted to marry. Then a vision of Goodwyn came to mind, along with all the lectures he needed to prepare, and a change of career suddenly seemed rather appealing.

He arrived to find the Tulyet house in uproar, which was not uncommon when Dickon had hurt himself – he was the kind of lad who wanted everyone else to suffer, too. The servants had retreated to the back of the house for safety, and Dickon himself was in the kitchen, bawling at the top of his very considerable voice.

‘Dickon, please!’ his mother was begging. ‘What will your father think when he hears about the fuss you have made?’

‘He will have forgotten by the time he comes home,’ yelled Dickon. He had thick, heavy features, and bore no resemblance to either of his slim, graceful parents; it was widely believed that his mother had entertained the Devil the night he had been conceived. ‘Which might be weeks yet. He said so in the last letter he wrote to you – the one you keep in your little purple box.’

‘You poked about in my personal things?’ cried Mistress Tulyet, shocked. ‘Dickon!’

‘Go away!’ howled the boy when he saw Bartholomew. ‘Or I shall stab you with my sword.’

The weapon was on the table, and the physician’s lunge towards it was marginally quicker than Dickon’s. The boy’s eyes widened in fury when he saw the blade in the hands of his opponent.

‘Give it to me,’ he ordered between gritted teeth.

‘Behave yourself, Dickon,’ commanded his mother. Her voice was so unsteady with shock and distress that it carried scant conviction. ‘Or I shall tell Deputy de Stannell.’

The boy sneered. ‘He is not a real soldier. He pretends to be like Father, but he cannot even ride. I watched him all last night in the castle – he is taking secret lessons from Sergeant Helbye, so he will not make an ass of himself when he sits on a horse in town processions.’

‘You should have been in bed,’ said Mistress Tulyet weakly. ‘And what have I told you about spying on people?’

Needless to say, Dickon was unmoved by the reprimand. ‘It was fun. The lesson started at midnight, and finished at dawn. Poor Helbye was exhausted by the end of it, although de Stannell still cannot ride. But what can you expect from a man who looks like a monkey?’

‘He is very good at administration,’ said Mistress Tulyet, somewhat feebly. ‘And that is more important than horsemanship while your father is away.’

Tiring of the discussion, Dickon made a grab for the sword, obliging Bartholomew to raise it above his head where it could not be reached. He felt ridiculous, like a statue of Neptune wrestling a sea-serpent he had once seen in Rome, and he laughed out loud. Dickon regarded him with small, malevolent eyes, then sat down suddenly and presented his damaged hand. Bartholomew examined it cautiously, keeping a firm grip on the weapon, knowing the boy intended to retrieve it at the first opportunity. If Dickon succeeded, blood would be spilled – and it would not be his own.

As usual, the injury was superficial, and would have been disregarded by most children. Still on his guard, Bartholomew smeared it with a soothing paste.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

‘The horse bit me,’ pouted Dickon, submitting more readily to Bartholomew’s ministrations once he realised it was not going to hurt. ‘And I am going to shoot it in revenge.’

‘No, you are not,’ said Mistress Tulyet sharply. ‘You bit it first.’

‘He bit a horse?’ blurted Bartholomew.

‘It was looking at me,’ said Dickon. ‘Can I have my sword back now?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, and because Mistress Tulyet looked pale and tired, he mixed a mild soporific that would send Dickon to sleep and give her a few hours’ respite. He was not in the habit of drugging children, but Mistress Tulyet was also his patient, and her health was just as important as her hellion son’s. ‘Drink this and go to bed.’

‘I shall not,’ said Dickon, folding his arms sulkily. ‘I am not thirsty.’

Bartholomew was good with children, and rarely had trouble persuading them to take what he prescribed. Dickon was the exception, and the physician was ashamed of the dislike the boy always engendered in him. He was just trying to decide whether to let Dickon go without a battle, or stick to his guns and pour the medicine down the brat’s throat, when Edith walked in.

‘I heard there had been a mishap,’ she said. ‘So I came to help.’

‘You are not wanted here,’ snarled Dickon rudely. ‘Go away.’

Bartholomew gripped the sword rather tightly. While he did not care what Dickon said to him, his beloved sister was another matter altogther, and he was about to say so when she stepped forward.

‘Is this Dickon’s medicine?’ she asked, picking up the cup from the table.

‘To make him better,’ replied Mistress Tulyet, and Bartholomew was not sure whether he heard or imagined the murmured ‘if only that were possible’ that followed.

‘Then drink it,’ said Edith, holding it out. When Dickon hesitated, her expression became forbidding, and Bartholomew had a sudden flash of memory back to his own childhood, when some youthful prank had displeased her. ‘Or there will be trouble.’

Intimidated by the steel in her voice, Dickon accepted the cup and sipped the mixture. He pulled a face and opened his mouth to complain, but Edith raised an authoritative forefinger, which was enough to see the potion swallowed and the cup set meekly back on the table.

‘Now go to bed,’ she ordered. ‘And not a sound until morning, or you will answer to me.’

Dickon went without a word, and Mistress Tulyet followed, her face full of startled wonder. Edith grinned wanly once she and Bartholomew were alone.

‘I learned how to deal with naughty children when I raised you.’

‘I hardly think I was anything like Dickon,’ objected Bartholomew.

‘No, but you were worse than Richard by a considerable margin. He was an angel, and it is difficult to understand what has happened to him.’

‘There is still time for him to settle down,’ said Bartholomew, although he did not believe it, and neither did she. Richard was well into his twenties, so youthful exuberance could no longer be blamed for the deficiencies in his character.

‘I owe you an apology, Matt,’ Edith began. ‘Last night, I said it was your fault that Oswald died, because you were away when he was ill. It was unkind – I know he would have passed away regardless. Yet I cannot escape the sense that something was amiss…’

‘Many bereaved people do,’ said Bartholomew kindly. ‘It is perfectly natural.’

She shot him a baleful look. ‘This is different. And I hate to admit it, but perhaps Richard was right about me sorting through that chest. There was a document this morning…’

‘What did it say?’

Edith glanced around quickly before lowering her voice. ‘It is all rather unclear, but I think Oswald charged too much for a consignment of cloth that went to King’s Hall. The figures do not tally, and his notes on the transaction seem to imply that he knew it.’

Bartholomew could hardly say that he was not surprised. ‘Perhaps you should let Richard sort through these records. He did offer.’

Edith grimaced. ‘I am not sure he is capable, to be frank. And nor would he appreciate being obliged to work when he could be out drinking with his cronies. Thank God Oswald left the business to me. Richard would have sold it by now – or run it into the ground with ineptitude – which would have been a disaster for the people we employ.’

Bartholomew agreed, but felt it would be disloyal to say so. ‘Is he going to the meeting of the Guild of Saints? I heard that one has been called.’

‘Of course,’ said Edith bitterly. ‘Wine will be served afterwards.’

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, trying to think of words that might comfort her. None came to mind.

Edith sighed unhappily. ‘He told me this morning that several friends have applied to Winwick Hall, so he has decided to stay on here, to enjoy their lively company. I never thought I would say it, Matt, but I wish he would leave Cambridge and go back to London. Just because I am a widow does not mean that I want a grown son under my feet – especially one who has an annoying aversion to anything that might be considered work.’

‘He will not be here much longer,’ predicted Bartholomew. ‘Carousing will be forbidden to his scholar friends once term starts, so he will find himself drinking alone. He will soon tire of it.’

Edith gave him a hopeful smile and changed the subject. ‘There are a lot of nasty rumours circulating at the moment, including one about Michael…’

‘That he intends to inflict the Michaelhouse Choir on the beginning of term ceremony? It will not make our College very popular.’

‘Oh, Lord, does he?’ gulped Edith. ‘I had no idea. Perhaps that is why the Guild has called an emergency meeting – to discuss ways to prevent it. But I was talking about the gossip that says he arranged for Felbrigge to be shot for daring to set covetous eyes on the senior proctorship.’

‘Then the gossipmongers do not know Michael. He is perfectly capable of defeating rivals through non-fatal means.’

‘I am just reporting what is being said. However, the only way to put a stop to these nasty tales is by finding the real killer.’

‘Yes,’ sighed Bartholomew. ‘The only problem being a marked absence of clues.’

It was not long before Mistress Tulyet reported with a relieved sigh that Dickon was asleep. The servants began to creep back, speaking in whispers lest they woke the brat, while the horse that had sparked the incident was whisked away to safety. Bartholomew walked Edith to the Guild of Saints’ headquarters, a timber-framed hall near St Clement’s Church. She was still a member, although a less active one since inheriting her husband’s large and complex business.

She faltered at the door, assailed by memories of happier times, so Bartholomew took her by the hand and led her inside. He would not be permitted to stay long, but no one would mind him escorting her to Richard. He entered the main chamber, and was astonished to find it packed with people – the Guild had not been half as big in Stanmore’s day. Most members stood, while the officers and more important individuals sat on a long bench at the front.

‘I thought this was an exclusive organisation,’ he whispered. ‘Open only to wealthy folk who are willing to be generous to the poor.’

‘It is. But people clamour to join because it is prestigious – a symbol of high status. Anyone who can pay an entrance fee is enrolled these days. Unlike when Oswald was in charge.’

Bartholomew said nothing, but knew for a fact that Stanmore had not been as particular as she believed. For a start, he had admitted Potmoor, a man who was openly proud of his criminal achievements. Bartholomew glanced around, suddenly uneasy. He had not seen Potmoor since tending him on his ‘deathbed’ and had no wish to renew the acquaintance.

‘Is John Knyt here?’ asked Edith, struggling to see over the heads of the people in front. ‘He is our Secretary, but I can only hear his assistant de Stannell speaking.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I cannot abide de Stannell – he has sly fingers in every pie.’

‘Deputy Sheriff de Stannell? He is Assistant Secretary of the Guild as well?’

‘He seems to like being second in command,’ said Edith with uncharacteristic acerbity. ‘Or perhaps he intends to oust both his betters, and run shire and Guild at the same time.’

Aware that he would soon be asked to leave, Bartholomew looked around for Richard, but his eye lit on Julitta instead. She would look after Edith. He steered his sister towards her, glad that Holm had abandoned his wife for Hugo, with whom he was muttering and giggling.

‘I thought you told me that they had quarrelled,’ he said, watching the pair in distaste. It was inappropriate behaviour for two grown men in a public place.

‘They made up,’ Julitta replied, and Bartholomew experienced a surge of anger against Holm when he saw the misery in her eyes. She made an obvious effort to suppress it, and smiled as she brought Edith up to date with the meeting’s progress. ‘We are discussing the Michaelhouse Choir. Potmoor says they should be allowed to sing at the ceremony next week. Everyone else disagrees.’

‘Then let us hope the majority prevails,’ said Edith fervently, ‘or the occasion will be ruined. Oswald always said that he could not hear himself think once they started caterwauling.’

Heads together, she and Julitta began to exchange tales of their experiences with the singers, and seeing Edith was in kindly hands, Bartholomew aimed for the door. A number of Stanmore’s old friends nodded amiable greetings as he passed, and the patriarch of the powerful Frevill clan came to offer belated condolences.

‘I miss him,’ he sighed. ‘And I am sorry to say it, Bartholomew, but your nephew is not his equal. Not by a long way.’

It was true, but Bartholomew was unwilling to admit it to a man he barely knew. He mumbled a noncommittal reply, and was almost at the door when he was intercepted by another guildsman – Potmoor. He experienced a stab of alarm when the felon smiled, as there was something not entirely nice about the expression.

Potmoor looked like a criminal. He had small, shifty eyes, a flamboyant moustache of the kind favoured by pirates, and thinning hair kept in place by the application of copious amounts of goose-grease. He was not very big, yet he exuded an aura of evil menace, and Bartholomew was perfectly prepared to believe the many tales about his barbarity, greed and ruthlessness.

‘I never thanked you,’ Potmoor said. ‘For bringing me back from the dead.’

‘You were not dead,’ replied Bartholomew, although he knew he was wasting his time: Potmoor was enjoying the prestige that accrued from his so-called resurrection. ‘Catalepsia is–’

‘I was dead, and I saw the bright glory of Heaven,’ countered Potmoor, a little dangerously.

‘It was an illusion. There were a lot of candles burning in your bedchamber that night.’

‘I know what I saw. Or are you telling me that I mistook you and your medical colleagues for God and His angels?’ Potmoor gave a low, creaking laugh.

Bartholomew frowned, taking in the man’s pale face and unsteady hands. ‘Yet you are still not recovered. What ails you? Headaches? Fevers?’

‘Headaches, which I attribute to setting eyes on the face of Our Lord. Meryfeld’s remedies were worthless, so I dismissed him, and hired Master Lawrence instead. Provost Illesy recommended him, as he was once medicus to Queen Isabella, although he has not cured me either. Would you like the job? I am a very rich man.’

‘I have too many patients already,’ said Bartholomew, trotting out the excuse he had used the last time Potmoor had asked. ‘I am sure Lawrence will find a medicine that helps you soon.’

It was a lie, as he was not sure at all. Such symptoms should have eased by now, and their persistence did not bode well. Potmoor launched into another subject.

‘Has your sister recovered from her tragic loss?’

‘No,’ replied Bartholomew shortly, recalling that Oswald had vigorously opposed Potmoor’s expansion into Cambridge and his untimely death had certainly been to Potmoor’s advantage. Naturally, there had been rumours, although they had fizzled out eventually, due to a lack of evidence. However, Bartholomew did not like the smirk on the felon’s face.

‘Pity.’ Potmoor changed tack yet again. ‘Hugo informs me that we never paid you for bringing me back to life. I would rather have remained in Heaven, of course, but I am not a man who reneges on his debts. Here is your fee.’

‘There is no need.’ Bartholomew refused to take the proffered purse. He was being watched, and it would do his reputation no good whatsoever to be seen accepting money from such a man.

‘I hope you are not suggesting that my life is not worth it,’ said Potmoor coldly.

‘No, of course not, but–’

‘Good.’ Potmoor grabbed Bartholomew’s hand and slapped the pouch into it. ‘From what I hear, your College could do with a windfall.’

‘What do you mean?’ Was this an admission that Potmoor had raided Michaelhouse?

Potmoor smiled, and Bartholomew struggled to prevent himself from shuddering at its reptilian nature. ‘Just that I am sure you can put my donation to good use.’

Bartholomew left the guildhall confused and unsettled. He shoved the purse into his medical bag, disliking the greasy touch of it on his fingers. The encounter had made him feel grubby, and he hated to think how the exchange would be interpreted by the people who had witnessed it. He swore under his breath, wishing he had had the sense to cut the conversation short.

His reverie was interrupted when someone collided with him so heavily that he was almost knocked off his feet. The culprit did not stop, but continued down Bridge Street, head bowed and hands tucked inside his green cloak. One of Bartholomew’s patients saw the incident.

‘Some folk got no manners,’ he muttered. His name was Noll Verius, a slovenly, loutish ditcher who was not known for courteous behaviour himself. ‘It is because you are a scholar, see. The University is unpopular with normal folk at the moment.’

He went on his way before Bartholomew could respond, moving so fast that the physician wondered if he aimed to catch up with the fellow and berate him for his clumsiness. Bartholomew started to call out to stop him, but suddenly became aware of the acrid stench of burning. It was coming from St Clement’s Church, along with the sound of drunken singing. Bemused, he recognised the voice of its vicar, William Heyford, a man noted for preaching vicious sermons against the University. But Heyford claimed to be an abstemious soul who rarely touched wine, so Bartholomew went to investigate. Smoke billowed out as he opened the door, and he could hear flames devouring dry wood within.

‘Fire!’ he yelled at the top of his voice.

No passer-by needed to be reminded of the dangers of a blaze in a town where houses were timber-built and thatch-roofed. There was an instant flurry of activity. Buckets, bowls and even boots were frantically filled with water from the well, but the effort was disorganised and far too much of the precious liquid was spilled as it was slopped towards the burning building.

With his sleeve over his nose and mouth, Bartholomew groped his way inside, aiming for the spot where he could still hear Heyford. The priest was lying on the chancel floor, crooning and chuckling to himself, while the high altar was a bright rectangle of flames. He heard a sound behind him and turned quickly.

‘Is he drunk?’

Eyer the apothecary had followed him in. He was a comparative newcomer to the town, a pink-faced man with a round head. He always wore a clean white apron, and his air of venerable geniality made people more willing to trust his remedies. His clean, pleasantly fragrant shop on the High Street had become a refuge for the town’s physicians, and Bartholomew in particular sought sanctuary there when pressure of work threatened to overwhelm him. Eyer had recently been elected to the Guild of Saints, and Edith said he had already donated large sums to worthy causes.

Yet despite his generosity, there was something about the apothecary that Bartholomew did not quite trust, and he knew the other medici felt the same. None could put his finger on what made them draw back from the proffered hand of friendship, but the inconsistencies in the stories Eyer told about his past did not help: small contradictions, it was true, but enough to raise eyebrows.

Together, physician and apothecary pulled Heyford to his feet, and half dragged, half carried him into the street, where they deposited him, still chortling, next to a horse trough. Two of his deacons came to hover anxiously over him. Heyford reeked of wine, and his eyes had the dull glaze of a man who was barely conscious. Bartholomew suspected it would be some time before he was sober enough to answer questions.

‘I had not taken him for a drinking man,’ remarked Eyer wonderingly. ‘And certainly not one who would imbibe so much that he would set his own church alight.’

‘He did nothing of the kind,’ said one of the deacons indignantly. ‘He is ill, not drunk.’

‘We shall take him home,’ said the other. ‘The poor man needs to rest.’

They hauled him upright and hustled him away, taking a circuitous route so that as few people as possible would witness his condition. Bartholomew turned his attention back to the fire.

There were many willing hands, but no one had organised them, so the result was a chaotic mêlée, with folk bumping into each other and water slopped needlessly. The Guild of Saints had abandoned its meeting. A few members were toting buckets, but most were too grand to soil their hands, so confined themselves to offering impractical advice. The Deputy Sheriff, who should have taken charge, was more interested in cornering Potmoor. Watching, Bartholomew saw that Dickon was right to say he looked like a monkey – de Stannell had a long, protruding nose, close-set eyes and bushy facial hair.

‘Perhaps he is trying to charm another benefaction for our Guild’s continuing good work,’ shrugged Eyer, seeing where Bartholomew was looking and reading his thoughts. ‘Potmoor has been generous since … recently.’

‘I would have thought that saving the town is rather more pressing at the moment.’

Eyer clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Spoken like a man with no head for finance! But look – your sister and Mistress Holm have taken charge. De Stannell’s authority is not needed anyway.’

Briskly competent, Edith and Julitta shepherded people into a line so that water could be poured into the church more effectively. Bartholomew and Eyer joined it, the physician glancing around quickly to see who had done likewise.

Provost Illesy and his Fellows had pitched into the affray, Illesy speaking in a loud, important bray to ensure that everyone knew Winwick Hall was doing its bit. Lawrence worked quietly at his side, his white beard full of cinders, while Nerli toiled with soldierly efficiency. Bon dropped more buckets than he passed, but at least he was trying – unlike Ratclyf, who kept his distance.

‘The Cambridge Debate will start soon,’ said Eyer, when Bartholomew remarked on it. ‘Ratclyf is scheduled to speak, and will not want to arrive looking like a drowned rat.’

‘That does not seem to worry anyone else.’

Eyer shoved a bucket at Bartholomew with such urgency that most of its contents sluiced down the physician’s front. ‘Perhaps he is just more fastidious than the rest of the University.’

Another man who considered himself a cut above hefting pails was Potmoor, his mustachioed face wearing a sly look that made Bartholomew wonder whether he was responsible for the blaze. Nearby, his hulking son Hugo stood with Holm, both watching Julitta. Bartholomew could not tell if the surgeon was proud or resentful of his wife’s organisational skills. With a stab of disappointment, he saw Richard was not helping either – he was with Goodwyn and the other new medical students, laughing in a way that suggested he did not care that the town was in danger.

‘You will have trouble with them,’ came a voice at his side. It was Hemmysby. The gentle Michaelhouse theologian was also trying to keep his finery clean for the debate, but that did not stop him from working as hard as anyone. ‘It is a pity Langelee accepted them.’

‘Perhaps they will leave once they realise that reading medicine is hard work,’ said Bartholomew hopefully.

‘It is with you!’ Hemmysby’s smile took the sting from his words. ‘You drive your lads harder than any other master in the University, although it has its rewards. Five of the seven who graduated last year secured excellent posts in noble households.’

This was a sore point. Bartholomew had hoped they would dedicate themselves to doing something more useful than calculating horoscopes for the wealthy, and their appointments made him feel as though he had wasted his time. He called over to their replacements, and ordered them to join the line. They obeyed with ill grace, Richard trailing at their heels.

‘I do not see why I should labour like a peasant,’ grumbled Goodwyn. ‘There are more than enough low types here for that, and I…’

He faltered when he saw the dark expression on his teacher’s face, and promptly turned his attention to his duties. Richard laughed uproariously at the exchange, although there was a brittle quality to his guffaws that made them sound more mocking than amused.

At last the town’s frenzied labours paid off, and someone called out the welcome news that the fire was out. People flexed aching arms and shoulders, congratulating each other on their efforts. But all asked the same question: how had it started?

‘I expect it was that drunken vicar,’ said Eyer. ‘He must have knocked over a candle.’

‘Or Potmoor,’ suggested Goodwyn. ‘Look at him – you can see from here that he is disappointed the church is saved. He is a killer and a thief, and arson is nothing to him.’

‘Potmoor is a thief,’ whispered Hemmysby to Bartholomew. ‘But I doubt he stole our hutch, so I hope Michael does not accuse him of it. It will be someone else. Winwick Hall, perhaps.’

‘You said that earlier,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘But you had no evidence.’

‘And I have none now. Yet I sense that all will turn out well in the end.’ Hemmysby laughed suddenly. ‘Lord! I sound as credulous as Cynric!’

‘Who is that fellow lurking at the back of the church?’ asked Goodwyn, pointing with a bony finger. ‘One of Potmoor’s henchmen? He looks very suspicious.’

‘That is Nicholas Fulbut,’ supplied Richard. ‘He is a mercenary, and he does sell his services to Potmoor on occasion. De Stannell told me that he is wanted for all manner of crimes.’

‘Then have you told de Stannell that he is here?’ asked Hemmysby archly. ‘Or, as I am sure you are a model citizen with a sense of duty and justice, why have you not arrested him yourself?’

‘Oh, he has disappeared now,’ said Richard. ‘What a pity.’

‘A pity indeed,’ murmured Hemmysby coolly.

Rudely, Richard turned his back on the priest and addressed his cronies. ‘I wonder why Knyt did not attend the Guild meeting today. He would not have let the Michaelhouse Choir sing next week. De Stannell was like clay in Potmoor’s hands over the matter.’

‘Colic confines him to bed,’ explained Eyer. ‘His wife told me when she came to collect bryony root to make him a soothing tonic.’

‘I think I shall join Michael’s choir,’ said Goodwyn, grinning impishly at his classmates. ‘I understand a lack of musical talent is no barrier, and there is free ale afterwards.’

‘Then I shall inform him of your interest,’ said Hemmysby sweetly. ‘He is always looking for volunteers to help serve the food and drink, and I am sure you will not mind waiting on paupers.’

When the bell in St Mary the Great chimed to announce that the Cambridge Debate was about to begin, most scholars hurried away. A number of matriculands lingered, though, eyeing a group of apprentices and clearly ready for a brawl. Michael dealt with the would-be students, but de Stannell was no better at exerting authority on unruly youths than he was at fighting fires, and the town lads continued to loiter. Unwilling to go far until they had dispersed, Michael went to inspect the church, picking his way up the aisle carefully, lest water or ashes should soil his best habit.

‘Have you spoken to Heyford?’ asked Bartholomew, following him inside and flapping at the smoke that still swirled. ‘To determine whether this is arson or accident?’

Michael gave a disgusted snort. ‘He is in a drunken stupor, and is likely to remain that way for hours. His deacons told me that someone sent him a gift of exceptionally strong wine, which, as a usually abstemious person, he should not have touched. It seems he then knocked over a candle as he staggered around. Foolish man!’

‘The altar was blazing when I found him.’ Bartholomew coughed as he looked around. ‘Fortunately, the damage does not seem to be too severe.’

‘A bit of scrubbing and a new table, and all will be right again. I was unimpressed with de Stannell’s reaction to the crisis today. He did nothing to take command of the situation, preferring instead to curry favour with Potmoor.’

Bartholomew started to describe his encounter with the felon in the guildhall, but Michael was not very interested, and cut across him with a lengthy account of his own efforts to identify the burglar who had visited so many of the University’s hostels and Colleges.

‘I know most people think Potmoor is the guilty party,’ he said. ‘And they may well be right. However, I feel obliged to investigate other suspects, too. I ordered my beadles to round up a few likely offenders, and I have passed the time since we last met with some very unsavoury villains.’

‘Did any confess to stealing our hutch?’

‘No. They all have alibis of one kind or another. My beadles will check them, but I imagine we shall be forced to let them go. I would have been spared the ordeal if Dick Tulyet were here – it is the Sheriff’s responsibility to interview these people, not mine. I asked de Stannell to oblige, but he said he is too busy. That man is a disgrace! Dick should never have left him in charge.’

When they returned to the street the apprentices had gone, so they aimed for the town centre, Michael walking unusually briskly, so as not to miss more of the debate. They joined three other scholars who were also heading in that direction – Bon, clinging to Lawrence’s arm, and Doctor Rougham, the haughtiest and least likeable of the town’s four physicians.

Rougham was Acting Master of Gonville Hall, and an inflexible traditionalist, which meant he and Bartholomew were diametrically opposed in their approach to medicine. Time had rendered their association a little less volatile, but relations were currently strained because Bartholomew had failed all Rougham’s students in their summer disputations. Rougham had still not forgiven him, although it should have been obvious even to his indignant eyes that his lads were well below par.

‘I am astonished to learn that Heyford was drunk,’ Rougham said. ‘Especially after his sermon on Sunday advocating abstinence.’

‘There is much to be said for abstinence,’ said Lawrence, eagerly seizing the opportunity for a medical discussion. ‘The great Maimonides says–’

‘It is for fools,’ interrupted Rougham uncompromisingly. ‘And I shall never practise it myself, or recommend it to my patients.’

As neither Bartholomew nor Lawrence were inclined to tackle such a rigidly held conviction, the debate ended there and then.

‘How are your enquiries into Elvesmere’s death, Brother?’ asked Bon, stumbling over a rut and scowling at Lawrence for failing to warn him. ‘The murder has not affected the number of lads who want to study with us, thank God, but I still do not like it hanging over our heads.’

‘Then help me,’ said Michael. ‘Have you remembered anything that might point to his killer, no matter how silly or insignificant it may seem?’

‘There is one thing,’ replied Bon. ‘We had a visitor late on the night that Elvesmere died. Potmoor, whom I distinctly heard leaving the Provost’s Suite.’

‘Provost’s Suite,’ sneered Rougham under his breath. ‘Why not Master’s quarters, like everyone else? I cannot abide these pretensions of grandeur.’

‘Potmoor might be a fellow guildsman and generous with donations,’ Bon went on. ‘But he is a criminal, and I do not want him inside my College. Moreover, I am not sure Illesy is fit to be Provost if he keeps that sort of company.’

‘There is nothing wrong with Potmoor,’ said Lawrence, more sharply than was his wont. ‘He is always perfectly gentlemanly when he summons me to remedy his headaches. However, this is a matter we should discuss later, Bon.’

His pointed glance was wasted, for obvious reasons, but Bon caught the physician’s meaning from the warning tone in his voice and fell silent, albeit reluctantly.

‘We had better have a word with Potmoor,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew. ‘It would be a tidy solution if he murdered Elvesmere.’

The physician nodded without enthusiasm, then turned to help Lawrence guide Bon across a particularly uneven section of the High Street. Lawrence thanked him, but Bon did not bother, and went on the offensive instead.

‘How are your enquiries into Felbrigge’s murder, Brother? I do not believe you ordered him shot, of course.’ The tone of his voice suggested otherwise. ‘But the rumours that you did are damaging the University – and what damages the University also harms Winwick. I do not want my College sullied by association. Perhaps you should consider tendering your resignation.’

‘Bow to the dictates of petty gossip?’ demanded Michael indignantly. ‘I most certainly shall not, especially as the only people who believe such ludicrous tales are fools and scoundrels.’

Bon’s mouth tightened at the insult. ‘If your continued presence harms my College, I shall write to the King and demand your removal.’

Michael regarded him thoughtfully. ‘It usually takes years for new foundations to inspire such deep loyalty among its members, yet Winwick Hall has–’

‘Yes, I do love Winwick,’ interrupted Bon fiercely. ‘And do you know why? Because I have much to offer academia, but no one else would hire me. Our founder alone saw past my blindness and recognised my abilities, so the least I can do is give his College my complete devotion.’

‘Yet your ailment must be a disadvantage,’ mused Michael. ‘How do you study the texts you are obliged to teach?’

‘I learned them by rote before my eyes grew dim. And if I need to refresh my memory, I pay students to read to me. There is nothing wrong with my mind, Brother. It is just as sharp as yours.’

‘Is that so?’ Michael tended to the opinion that few colleagues were his intellectual equal.

Bon bridled, and his voice turned even more acidic. ‘So what are you doing about Felbrigge’s killer? Or are you just grateful to the culprit for ridding you of an ambitious junior?’

‘Bon,’ murmured Lawrence warningly. ‘You shame us with these intemperate remarks.’

‘Yes, you do,’ agreed Michael coolly. ‘However, since you ask, Felbrigge’s murder is solved. The culprit will be in my cells by the end of the day.’

‘Will he?’ blurted Lawrence. He sounded alarmed, and Bartholomew wondered why. ‘Oh, look! We are at Eyer’s shop. I think I had better buy a remedy for queasiness, as I feel most unwell.’

‘He must be nervous about the debate,’ said Rougham, watching him dart inside. ‘He is unused to public speaking.’

‘Will you be taking part, Rougham?’ asked Bon.

‘Of course not,’ replied Rougham scathingly. ‘Do I look like a friar or a monk to you?’

Bon’s expression was cool. ‘You do not look like anything to me. I am blind, if you recall.’

‘Oh,’ said Rougham uncomfortably. ‘I suppose you are.’

Leaving the Gonville man to make obsequious apologies, all of which were received with icy disdain, Bartholomew and Michael continued alone.

‘Do you really know who killed Felbrigge, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Yes and no. I have the identity of the archer – Cynric heard him bragging in the King’s Head last night. However, word is that he was hired by someone else, who is the real culprit in my opinion. The archer will talk once he is in my cells. I have never met a mercenary yet who was prepared to sacrifice himself for his paymaster.’

‘A mercenary?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking of how Richard had described the man they had seen lurking behind St Clement’s. ‘What is his name?’

‘Nick Fulbut. My beadles are hunting him as we speak.’

Bartholomew stopped walking. ‘He was watching the fire just now.’ He repeated what Richard had told him, omitting the uncomfortable truth that his nephew had made no attempt to report the matter to the authorities, regardless of the fact that he knew Fulbut was a wanted man.

Michael hurried back as fast as his legs would carry him, Bartholomew at his heels, but neither scholar was surprised to discover that their quarry was no longer there. The monk instructed two beadles to monitor the church lest the archer reappeared, then he and Bartholomew turned towards St Mary the Great again.

‘The news that Fulbut works for Potmoor is disturbing,’ said Michael. ‘Why would Potmoor want my Junior Proctor dead? And if Fulbut was lurking near the burning church, do you think he gave Heyford the strong wine and lit the fire? On Potmoor’s orders?’

‘I thought you said it was an accident. Besides, what can Potmoor have against Heyford?’

‘A lot of vicious sermons that accuse him of all manner of crimes. I have warned Heyford to curb his tongue, but he is not a man to listen to sound counsel.’

Despite his intention to stay away, Bartholomew did attend some of the debate. He heard Michael speak with his usual incisive eloquence, which had even friars nodding their appreciation. After Michael came Ratclyf, whose language was so flowery that it was difficult to distil any meaning from it, and Bon, who was uninspired and unoriginal. Hemmysby was next, and demolished the Winwick men with an intellectual agility that earned him a standing ovation.

‘Michaelhouse is doing well,’ murmured Lawrence, standing at Bartholomew’s side. ‘But I fear Winwick’s entry into public disputation has been less than distinguished, and I doubt my contribution will redeem us. I am too nervous to shine.’

‘Address your remarks to your friends, and do not look at anyone else,’ advised Bartholomew. ‘Speak slowly, clearly and loudly, and ignore any jeers.’

Lawrence smiled wanly. ‘Thank you. Oh, Lord! The Chancellor is waving to me – it is my turn to speak. Into the valley of the shadow of Death…’

He was far too diffident for the boisterous arena of the Cambridge Debate, and had barely finished his opening remarks before the hecklers weighed in. Tynkell should have silenced them, but he was a meek man himself, and his timid exhortations were ignored. When he saw the discussion had reached the point where no one was going to be allowed to finish a sentence, Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse to work on his lectures.

He made reasonable progress, and by evening he knew he could manage the first week with something approaching competence. Of course, that still left the rest of term, and he wondered whether he would be reduced to using last year’s material. Other masters did it, but he considered it a lazy habit and wanted to avoid it if possible.

After a miserable supper of stale bread smeared with some sort of brown paste, washed down with a liquid Agatha claimed was broth but that might equally well have been something in which she had washed the pots, he went to visit Edith. She was in angry tears following another spat with Richard over the documents she had been examining, but her seamstresses were providing fierce female solidarity, and Bartholomew sensed that his presence was an unwanted intrusion. He returned to Michaelhouse, and went to the conclave, where there was a lamp that was significantly better for reading than the flickering tallow candle in his own room.

‘I understand Potmoor paid you a princely sum today,’ said Langelee, watching him set scrolls, ink and pen on the table. He held out his hand. ‘It may stave off disaster for a few days.’

‘Who told you?’ asked Bartholomew resentfully. He had intended to replenish his medical supplies with the money – a matter of urgency now that there was no stipend to come. ‘Michael?’

‘Surgeon Holm.’ Langelee snatched the purse eagerly. ‘He was aiming to make trouble for you, so I lied and told him I already knew. That took the wind out of the bastard’s sails. I do not blame you for making a cuckold of the fellow. Julitta deserves a proper man.’

‘Let him keep a few coins for medicine, Master,’ said Hemmysby, watching Langelee pocket the lot. ‘I should not like to think of the poor suffering as a result of our temporary penury.’

‘It is not temporary,’ growled Langelee. ‘It is permanent. Even if Michael does manage to lay hold of the culprit, the money will have been spent by now.’

‘I disagree,’ said Hemmysby. ‘It is an enormous amount, far too large to dispose of without attracting attention. I am sure we shall have most of it back, if not all.’

No one else shared his optimism, but they did not argue about it for long, preferring instead to discuss how best to use Potmoor’s money. While they debated, Bartholomew struggled to work. The lamp had been turned low to save fuel, and the cheap oil smoked badly. It made his head ache, but he persisted anyway, and was still reading when Cynric arrived with a summons.

‘You are needed at John Knyt’s house, boy,’ the book-bearer announced. ‘You know – the Secretary of the Guild of Saints.’

‘I am?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise. ‘Why? He is Rougham’s patient.’

‘Rougham is unavailable, apparently. But Knyt lives on the Chesterton road, which is in Potmoor’s domain, so I had better go with you.’

Bartholomew was glad to escape from the reeking lantern. He hurried across the yard to collect his cloak, but as he approached his storeroom he detected a terrible smell emanating from within. He opened the door to see all his students crammed inside, amid a chaos of dirty flasks, broken pots and careless spillages. The far wall was barely visible through a thick fug of fumes, which was impressive, given the chamber’s modest size.

‘We are experimenting,’ explained Aungel brightly. ‘It was Goodwyn’s idea. We are testing what happens when you add different things to boiling urine. We aim to find one that explodes.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, perplexed. ‘What use would such knowledge be?’

‘All knowledge is useful,’ declared Goodwyn loftily. ‘Aristotle said so.’

Bartholomew was sure the philosopher had said no such thing. ‘I sincerely hope you did not use any of my supplies to test this ridiculous theory. I need them for patients.’

‘It is not ridiculous,’ objected Goodwyn indignantly. ‘And I am sure you cannot object to us expanding our minds. If you do, you should have locked your door.’

Bartholomew had locked it, but now it stood open. He looked up at the top shelf, where he kept his most expensive and dangerous compounds, and was horrified to see that the jars had been thoroughly raided. He also noticed that several lads were green about the gills, so he ordered them all outside into the fresh air.

‘I thought I had made it clear that no one was to enter the storeroom without me,’ he said, once the coughing and wheezing had eased. His voice was soft, but even the densest student could hear the anger in it. ‘Some of those mixtures are poisonous, and you are not yet qualified to handle them. And especially not to conduct silly experiments unsupervised. If it happens again, you can all find another College.’

‘You cannot dismiss us,’ said Goodwyn challengingly. ‘We paid good money to–’

He stopped speaking when Bartholomew glowered furiously at him, and stared at his feet instead, flushing a deep, resentful red. The other students exchanged uncomfortable glances, and there was a tense silence until Cynric broke it.

‘Knyt, boy,’ he said softly. ‘We should go.’

‘I will sort out the mess later,’ said Bartholomew in the same tightly controlled voice. He would have liked to tell the students to do it, but there was a danger that two substances might come together and harm them, and tempting though it was to wish the likes of Goodwyn in the cemetery, he had no wish to put the others in danger.

He stalked away. Goodwyn and the other newcomers immediately began muttering, and he was half inclined to sneak back to see if they were plotting revenge, but he was a senior scholar and such antics were beneath him. He kept walking, Cynric trotting at his side and Knyt’s servant scurrying behind. Eventually, he shot the book-bearer a rueful grin.

‘Now we have even more reason to find the Stanton Hutch. I want it back so we can return Goodwyn’s fees, because I am not teaching him next term. He is a bad influence on the others.’

‘Good,’ said Cynric fervently. ‘Because I do not like him either. Did I tell you that I caught him stealing wine from the kitchen today? He was fortunate it was me, not Agatha.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew drily. ‘So if he does it again, stand aside and let him walk into the dragon’s mouth. That would solve all our problems.’

‘Damn!’ Cynric was disgusted with himself. ‘Why did I not think of that?’

It was a long way to Knyt’s house, a pretty mansion on the Chesterton road. The weather had changed since Bartholomew had been in the conclave. Clouds had scudded in, brought by a gusty wind that made the trees sway and roar. It was unusually dark, too, and although Cynric had brought a torch, it was not easy to see the ruts and potholes in its guttering light. The air smelled of the fens, a dank, rich aroma of stagnant water and rotting vegetation, but there was also the sharper, cleaner tang of fresh-fallen autumn leaves.

After a while, they saw another torch bobbing on the road. It was a servant sent to meet them. The man grabbed Bartholomew’s arm and urged him into a trot, sobbing that Knyt was the best master in the country, genuinely loved by everyone who worked in his household.

When they arrived, Bartholomew’s cloak was whisked off, and he and his bag were bundled with polite but urgent speed along a corridor and up a flight of stairs; Cynric was escorted with equal briskness into the kitchen for refreshments. The house spoke of quietly understated wealth, Knyt’s affluence visible not in showy tapestries and gaudy ornaments, but in the quality of the furniture and the discreet luxury of the rugs on the floor.

In a large chamber on the upper storey, a fire crackled comfortably and lamps emitted a gentle, golden glow. It was dominated by a bed piled with furs. A number of servants stood around it, nearly all of them weeping. A woman stood at its foot, and Bartholomew recognised her as Olivia, Knyt’s wife of twenty years or more.

‘You are here at last,’ she said with a wan smile. ‘Good. My husband died an hour ago, but you raised Potmoor from the dead, so now you can do the same for John.’

Bartholomew took several steps away, cursing himself for a fool. Knyt had never been his client, and he should have been suspicious of a summons out of the blue. Then he saw Rougham in the shadows by the window, while Surgeon Holm, physicians Lawrence and Meryfeld, and Eyer the apothecary stood near the hearth. Bartholomew’s arrival meant that all Cambridge’s medical professionals were now present, just as they had been when Potmoor had ‘died’.

‘Mistress Olivia would like a miracle,’ explained Rougham icily, clearly outraged by the fact that she had called the others. ‘She will not believe me when I say her husband is gone.’

‘He had a seizure,’ added Eyer helpfully. ‘A major one, of the kind that is always fatal. I have seen many such cases before, so it was not difficult for me to diagnose it in Knyt.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. Eyer was an apothecary, not a physician, so had no authority to draw such conclusions. He glanced at the others, and saw they were similarly bemused.

‘I conducted my own examination, naturally,’ said Rougham, his cool glance telling Eyer that he had overstepped his mark. ‘It was a colic-induced seizure, brought on by a surfeit of oysters. Lawrence and Meryfeld agree.’

Eyer pulled an unpleasant face at the snub by omission, but it was nothing compared to the scowl Holm gave at the bald reminder that physicians were at the top of the medical profession, and everyone else was well below them.

‘Then there is nothing I can do, Mistress,’ said Bartholomew. He took a step towards the door, eager to leave, but two servants blocked his way. He tried to move past them, but they shoved him back, not roughly, but enough to tell him that he was not going anywhere.

‘It will not take a moment,’ said one quietly. ‘Just wave your salt almanac at him.’

‘Sal ammoniac,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘And it worked with Potmoor because he was not dead, no matter what he claims now. He was suffering from a condition that–’

‘Just cure him,’ interrupted the servant. ‘John Knyt is a decent, honest soul, and he should not die while Potmoor lives. It would not be right. Just apply your salt almanac, and the whole town will praise you as an angel of God.’

Bartholomew refrained from remarking that it was more likely to seal his reputation as a necromancer, and turned towards the sickbed, knowing he would not be allowed to leave until he had at least examined the patient. It did not take him long to see that Knyt was far beyond his skills, and had been for some time.

‘I am sorry,’ he said gently to Olivia. ‘My colleagues are right. Your husband is dead.’

‘There,’ said Rougham in satisfaction. ‘May we go now? We cannot do any more to help, and it is very late.’

Olivia ignored him. ‘Put your salt almanac to his nose, Doctor Bartholomew, like you did to John Potmoor.’

‘It will make no difference.’ It was not the first time someone had refused to believe that a loved one had gone, and Bartholomew knew the only way to convince Olivia was by patient kindness. He sat on a bench and gestured that she should perch next to him, so he could explain.

‘Do you have your salt almanac with you?’ she asked, not moving.

‘Yes, but–’

‘Then use it,’ she ordered. ‘Now, please.’

‘Just do it, Bartholomew,’ said Rougham irritably. ‘It will do no harm, and none of us will be permitted to leave until it is done.’

Very reluctantly and feeling like a ghoul, Bartholomew rummaged in his bag for the new salts he had bought after he had superstitiously discarded the ones he had used on Potmoor. Rougham snatched them from his hand and waved them under Knyt’s nose, evidently intending to claim the credit if it worked. It did not, so he handed them back without a word. Bartholomew turned apologetically to Olivia, but her face was grim as she indicated that he was to do it himself.

He did what she ordered, but her husband remained as dead as ever.